


Of the Winter Moon

by dailymantra



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Gen, M/M, sorta kinda fantasy AU?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3448607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dailymantra/pseuds/dailymantra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A final attack on the Eastern fortress of Ninnevale promises a war between East and West, with Lord James Barnes and his companion Natalia Romanov at the heart of the turmoil. Together they seek vengeance on the West, on those who've wronged their people.</p><p>House Carter struggles to maintain balance in peace in the West, but the ever present threat of war and betrayal has weakened their resolve. Lady Margaret depends on her guard, led by Captain Rogers, to keep the evil at bay. But a poison has taken hold of her people.</p><p>An archer from the Northern Isles may be the key to unlocking an ancient family secret for Katherine Bishop. If she can convince him it's worth his time, she might just get the chance at the life of adventure she's desired and save her friend in the process. It will mean leaving the world she's known behind and taking on some questionable companions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Fall

The frozen air captured their breath like ghosts. Brittle, broken icy wisps cut their way down Natalia's throat as she paced. She spun her dagger in her hand in part because it kept her fingers from turning blue, and because it caused her partner great pain in watching her fidget. His face was squinted into a fortress, but his eyes betrayed him, even in the pallid moonlight. Good, she liked crawling under his skin.

What she did not care for was waiting. Impatience ran in her bloodline. But Natalia Romanov continued her loop, between two limp birch trees, and waited. It was all she could do.

Her eyes flickered over to James Barnes, Lord of Ninnevale, standing in the shadows with one arm awkwardly crossed over his chest while the other hung flaccid at his side. Even in the darkness of the night he looked proud, regal, and ever so annoyed with the world. It could have midday in early summer, birds chirping and cool breeze blowing, and James still would have the look of a man with a hidden thorn in his boot. It was a deceptive look that came tacked to the role of leader. No enemy would see how he greeted ladies with a gentle bow or the way he teased children in that delicate way that made them smile and laugh at the taunt. It was sweet in the same way of molasses; Natalia could barely stomach it.

"Will you stop that already?" His voice sent a shiver down her spine.

She grinned, only because he couldn't see it.

"And do what instead?" she asked, turning to face him.

James sighed and stepped forward, heavy boots crunching through the crisp snow. "Be a proper bodyguard."

"Oh, so now I don't know how to take proper care of your body?" Natalia pouted. She waggled her dagger at him. "You've spent too many nights away from me if you think that."

The corner of James' mouth twitched, fighting instinct. Natalia would give him the whole, horrid world on a platter just to see the smile which had once come so naturally to him. He maintained his grim visage and shook his head.

"That may be the case. But it had to be done." His voice shook and a weaker man would have blamed the cold.

Natalia pressed the tip of her dagger against her finger, unsure of how to broach the topic that stung her tongue. It was more than just missing James in her bed. He'd been hiding something from her for weeks now, ever since they'd lost their home.

"And here I was thinking we'd be having a romantic evening," she said, trying for tact. "Hard to do when the coffer's empty though, isn't it?"

James' eyes flashed wide with surprise, which soon faded. "Of course you knew," he said softly.

"All we've got left is a few bricks and some gold coins. I noticed when we ran out of one." Natalia stepped into him, grasping his one good hand. All their lives she'd surpassed him in height and it had only been in recent years that he'd caught up to her. Not that she minded much, now that their eyes met so easily. "Tell me what this is about," she said earnestly. She needed his honesty, his soothing words, his smile.

"Our House fell because of me," James said, anger and pain poisoning his words. He clenched her hand in his so tightly her fingers numbed. "Because of my weakness, we lost everything."

"You're not weak."

"I'm a cripple." He spat the word at her with such force Natalia flinched. "Not a lord, not a soldier. But I'm still alive and if that counts for anything, I will make amends for my failure."

Natalia's eyebrows knit together in concern and confusion. She knew little of James' secret dealings in the woods, but it had been months since House Ninnevale had fallen and there'd been no retaliation. Not even an attempt. He still had a few loyal men who would stand behind him, but James had remained gratingly patient. The West had to pay for what they'd done to him and his family. For what they'd done to Natalia's foster family.

James brushed a tangled mat of red hair from Natalia's eyes, his fingers tickling across her cheek. "It's about revenge. Against those who've hurt us. When we're done with them, they'll be screaming our names for all eternity as they burn in Hell. Ninnevale will not be razed and forgotten."

"James..." She rested her forehead against his and their frigid breath mingled and melted on the frost on their lips. "I trust you, with all my heart. Do me the same kindness. Just tell me what you're planning."

Her ears prickled with the sound of approaching footsteps. They were so near, only a few meters away in the darkness. How had she not heard them earlier?

"Lord Barnes, I can see why they called Ninnevale the Winter House. You seem unbothered by the cold." The man's voice was thick and rich as oil, with a distinct Eastern accent. He was Ruthian, she could tell from his heavy 'n's and when he stepped into the moonlight, his garb gave him away. All straight edges and sharp corners, nothing like the northern furs and silks she and James wore.

Natalia couldn't stand Ruthians and their need to dress everything up in red when they themselves never spilled a drop of blood. It was said not even their women bled monthly in fear of staining their fine linens.

This man carried himself like a lord, a real lord, the way James forced himself to stand. He had broad shoulders and squinty eyes, hidden away under heavy eyebrows. Next to him stood a taller, lithe man with a thin moustache and a red face. His eyes were sharper than his compatriot's.

"You brought a friend," the lordlier man said. He surveyed Natalia, looking her over like livestock. Her hand clenched around the hilt of her knife.

"She can be trusted," James said, placing a hand delicately on the small of her back. Natalia bristled. "She's my...advisor."

The beady-eyed man's mouth curved into a serpentine grin. "I see. I'm sure she advises you rightly in all manner of things."

"True enough," Natalia said. She kept her face blank to save him any satisfaction. "Though had I known Lord Barnes was meeting in secret with Ruthians I would have strongly advised against it."

Beside her, James sighed and ran his hand across his face.

"My pardon, my lady. I should introduce myself. I am Lord Karpov and this," he gestured to the man next to him, "is Sir Lukin. We heard of the tragedy at Ninnevale and came to assist our brothers in arms."

"Ninnevale has no brothers in Rutha," Natalia hissed, again to James' vocal dismay.

"Ah, alas no. But the Winter House has always been welcoming of undesirables. Their hospitality was something of legend, something of which I am certain you are aware. " Lord Karpov exchanged a glance with his companion. "You're not of such a reputable house. While we watched you from afar, my dear friend Sir Lukin noted that you do not hold yourself like a Ninnevale woman. And now that we have had the chance to meet, I can see it in your face. What is it they call her kind? Once more, Sir Lukin?"

"They call them Mutts, my lord," Sir Lukin said, his voice deep and hollow.

James grabbed Natalia's arm before she could draw her dagger. She couldn't help herself, she let out a low growl, pulling her lip back in a nasty snarl. Lord Karpov crossed his arms over his chest, pleased at having gotten a rise out of her. Natalia would have felt foolish had blood red rage not been clouding her vision.

"So that's where you get the name," Lord Karpov said slowly, almost admiringly. He shifted his attention to James. "It's always the feral ones that give the most where it counts. Though you've got to bathe them thoroughly first."

The grip on Natalia's arm tightened and James pulled her back. He intruded on Lord Karpov's space and Sir Lukin set his hand on his sword hilt. Lord Karpov raised a hand for everyone to calm themselves.

"Perhaps I spoke out of turn," he said.

"You did," James said, the ire in his voice dissolving snowflakes. "It would be in the best interest of both parties for the two of us to remain focused. Where is the charm you promised me?"

Lord Karpov laughed, a low and bitter sound. Natalia wondered how well he might laugh with her hands around his throat.

"For what you paid me, Lord Barnes, I cannot offer you a mere charm. No, what I have for you is far greater than that." Lord Karpov motioned to Sir Lukin.

The tall man removed a satchel from his back and pulled out a small flask. He handed it to his master. In the cold like of the moon the red stitching in the leather of the flask dripped like blood.

James reached out for it. He looked mesmerized, moved like a man under a spell. Natalia kept her eyes on Sir Lukin's sword. Lord Karpov pulled the flask away before James could touch it, shaking the round container.

"The West has every right to be afraid of us, Lord Barnes. We are men of an ancient land. They have their apothecaries and their alchemists, but they pay a mighty cost. They've given up on tradition, on the old ways. And it will be the witches whose sisters they've burned and the magic they've so eagerly disregarded that will be their end." Lord Karpov tossed the flask to James, who caught it readily, if awkwardly. "That flask carries in it the strongest of us, the darkest. With it, you will be the ruin of the West, Lord Barnes."

"You're dealing in magic?" Natalia was incredulous, glowering at the back of James' head. "Should I write out all the reasons that's a bad idea so that you might keep the list on your person?"

He ignored her. "You would give me this? The last of the power the East has to offer?"

Lord Karpov's face lost it's arrogance and for a moment he looked human, fragile. "What happened to Ninnevale was....regrettable. You were our last bastion of hope. There is a war coming, Lord Barnes. We might see fresh blood spilled before first thaw. The East needs you, to shift the odds into our favour."

"Why me?"

"Because you came to me when you had nothing left." Lord Karpov straightened and his stiff demeanour returned.

James passed a wary glance back at Natalia. "I want no part of a war, my people have already suffered enough. My journey ends one Ninnevale has been avenged."

Lord Karpov shook his head slowly, as if dealing with a child who thought babes still fell to their mothers in the first snow of winter. "This is bigger than you, I'm afraid. You won't have your revenge until the West has fallen. Until Lady Carter of Caer Hall has been fed to the dogs and her children made to watch. And then, once that trifle has been dealt with, and Caer Hall is ash and rubble, then, and only then, will your people be at rest."

"You want to take Caer Hall?" James exchanged a glance with Natalia. "We can't. My men--"

"Not," Lord Karpov cut in, "with your men. Just you. That's all that will be required."

James gestured to his limp arm, half-smirking. "In case you hadn't noticed, while observing us from afar and determining the breed of my advisor, I'll be no good to anyone on my own. This arm doesn't work so well below the shoulder unless I swing it with enough force, and even then the best you'll be getting is a hard slap."

Natalia buried her grin behind her glove. Lord Karpov was amused, but his expression dropped a pit in her stomach and turned her blood icy cold.

"Perhaps. But that shouldn't be the case any longer." He motioned to the flask in James' hand. "What is it they say in the Winter House? 'Drink till the last man drops.'"

A deathly gust assaulted from the north, carrying with it prickling snow sharp as broken glass. Natalia Romanov was of the East, born and bred in the harsh grasp of winter. But in that instant under the moon and in the howling cold as James raised the flask, his eyes taking in the blood red stitches, she knew what it was to be chilled to the bone.

"What will it do?" James said, his words ripped from his mouth by the wind.

"Don't you dare drink that," Natalia said. Her voice fell on deaf ears.

"It will make you strong, my lord," Karpov said. "With it, you shall avenge your people. Your home."

Natalia's hair was whipped around her face, stinging her eyes. James popped the flask open with his thumb, a simple motion he'd done a thousand times in the past. He made it look so easy, like he was going to take a swig of ale then pass it along to Natalia with a drunk grin.

Instead, he raised the flask to his lips, paused, and turned to her.

"James." She hated how her voice broke, how it made her sound like a begging bitch.

"You said you trusted me."

With all my heart, she thought. "Yes," was all she could muster to say.

James gave her a slight nod, then turned back to Lord Karpov, and raised a toast. "Till the last man drops," he said, and drank heartily what might very well be his death.

Natalia's chest constricted and she stepped forward to catch James should he fall. Her mind was racing. She kept her eyes on the serene face of Lord Karpov and his shadow, Lukin. Neither of them made a move, neither looked concerned by her presence. Lord Karpov had his attention fixed on James, watching him as he finished whatever potion or poison he'd been given and dropped the flask. The night seemed to hold its breath.

"I...I can feel my arm." James' eyes fell on Natalia, a sincere smile tugging at his lips. The first one in what seemed like forever and it would belong to her. "Nat, I can feel everything."

Too good to be true, she thought, but perhaps that was her jealousy speaking. The Ruthians had managed to give James the one thing she could not, no matter how deeply she loved him. 

James' left arm lifted on its own, for the first time in years. He wiggled his fingers at Natalia and gave a gleeful laugh at his newfound ability to curl his hand into a fist. It was remarkable.

"You feel strong?" Lord Karpov asked.

Before he could answer, James crumpled forward, grasping at his left shoulder. Pain contorted his face and he dropped to his knees. Far too good to be true. Adrenaline hit against every one of Natalia's nerves and she drew her dagger on Karpov in the same moment that Lukin placed his sword against her throat.

"This is just a part of the process," Karpov said, watching James writhe on the ground. "The weak do not simply inherent strength, my dear lady." His eyes flashed as he turned them on Natalia. "Your lord will be reborn a thousand times stronger if he survives the night. And I pray that he does. We are very much looking forward to his destruction of the West."

James cried out and Natalia nicked herself on Lukin's sword as she turned to him.

"Perhaps, as his advisor, you might encourage him to make it to the morning," Karpov suggested. "Until we meet again, Lord Barnes. Farewell."

The Ruthians left, one after the other. Lukin stared at Natalia until his master beckoned for him and it was a long time before their footsteps could no longer be heard in the dead of night. Natalia held her breath and waited until she could suffer neither any longer. She collapsed to James' side and cleared the snow and earth from his face. He was shaking in her arms.

"If you think this will make me forget this is all your fault, you are sorely mistaken," she said, choking back all manner of brittle emotions. She propped James up in her lap as his shivering began to subside. His eyes, however, remained unfocused and he was pale as the snow falling around them.

"Promise me you won't start another war over this," he said hoarsely.

"What's a couple of dead Ruthians? Even their own mothers wouldn't miss them."

"Don't." James grasped her hand and it took a moment for Natalia to register his touch. "Just stay with me."

"Of course." Natalia's chest was burning. She had nothing without James, not anymore. She couldn't imagine a life worth living without him by her side. It would be preferable to cut off her own arm.

"Even when I have nothing left to my name, I have you." His voice was airy, distant.

James' eyes fluttered shut and his breathing was ragged but consistent. Natalia clenched him to her chest and then reeled backwards. Something had burned her, right through her layers of clothing and fur. She held her hand over James' chest, slowly moving it around and towards the source of the heat. It stemmed from his left shoulder, where she could just make out the faintest red glow.

Swallowing, Natalia pulled James' shirt open and twisted the fabric away to get a better look. She singed her fingers moving his sleeve away, her mouth falling open. There, on James' shoulder, was emblazoned a blood red star. A Ruthian symbol, one that meant death.

Natalia gathered snow in her hand and placed it over the star, holding it there though her soft flesh burned. She kept at it as the moon waned, and the shadows of night burst into nothingness in the presence of the rising sun. A pale blue sky erupted overhead and in the pinks and yellows of the early morning she could make out all the fine details on James' face. A scar on his lip, a nick on his chin, the thin curve of his upper lip that twisted a perpetual smile. She placed a hand inches above his mouth and was relieved to feel his shallow breath.

"I'm advising you to wake up," she whispered, pressing a light kiss against his cheek. "And to never do something as stupid as that again."

James' eyes opened, brown as the earth and just as cold. He coughed and sat up, clutching his left arm.

"It wasn't a dream, was it?" he asked, blinking in the daylight.

Natalia sighed gruffly and lifted his left hand onto her breast. "Tell me, do you feel that?"

"What little there is to feel," James jibed. She shoved him backwards and stood, shaking snow and dirt from her pants. "This is a miracle," he continued, seemingly content to sit on the ground, legs crossed like a child in a lesson.

"If that's what you want to call it," Natalia said with a sigh. She wasn't thrilled about being out in the open so far from home--or at least what was left of it. "Come on, we need to move."

"You realize we can do it now. What Karpov said. We can destroy the West." James accepted Natalia's hand and she helped him to his feet. He startled her with an embrace. "We can end what they started."

"Just because you've got the means to pleasure yourself or write a letter once again? I thought you didn't prescribe to the wartime vendetta." 

"You can be angry with me all you want, but you and I both know you won't let me go to Caer alone," he said with just a hint of conceit. In his mind, the argument had already been won. He ambled around her and followed their footsteps back into the woods, flexing his arm the whole way.

"Prick," Natalia muttered. But something in the air had changed and she could feel it. A change in the seasons, or maybe it was just exhaustion taking its toll on her. A new sensation tickled the back of her neck, a feeling like she was being watched. Of course there was no one there, it was just her and James as it had always been. And something more, something she couldn't put her finger on.

She looked down at her raw, peeling palm, burned numb. This new feeling filled her with a familiar dread. All the magic in the East, and even with Natalia at his side, James was venturing too readily into the unknown.

A morning chill caught her breath, dancing it in front of her and suddenly it was all too clear. Natalia knew this feeling. It was a calm after a storm, the last echo of a wolf's howl, the first fall of an autumn leaf. The final sigh before death. And it was all around her. 


	2. The Ones We Leave Behind

The sweet stink of spring hung in the air, over muck and horse shit, thick with leeching ground water and new-growth. It came later to the East than most other places, and took even longer to crawl to Ninnevale. But the scent was unmistakable and for the first time in his life it filled James with a new sensation: hope. A winter house hopeful for spring; the world might never be the same.

These were strange times indeed. James couldn't keep a grin off his face as he tucked his shirt into his pants, both hands finding their way. The pain, the fear, it had all been worth it. To be strong again after being so useless was a feeling beyond description. He could endure all of Natalia's dirt looks and muttered criticisms now that he could take hold of her in both arms and hold her to him. When she made peace with his decisions he'd be able to please her, too. James pulled his hair back with a tie. Yes, that would might be just enough to make her forgive him.

Stepping out of his flimsy tent, James peered out over the low valley. Bogland stretched on for miles, dense splotches of peat and several small open bodies of water. Wooden planks meandered through a camp set at the bottom of a slight slope, upon which James' tent rested. Below was all that remained of Ninnevale, forced from their homes down to the wretched land that reeked of rot and decay. Soon there would be flies and unbearable sticking heat for long, long days. 

James gripped the flap of his temporary home, tearing the thin material. These people--his people--had nothing to their names. Not gold, nor stone. The West had sought to destroy them because of their strength, their endurance and spirit. And it would keep them going, for now, even down in the mire and squalor. Not for much longer. He would make sure the West burned.

"Maybe you can get those Ruthians to give you something to smooth out that forehead of yours." Natalia stood beside him, observing her longsword casually. She propped it over her shoulder and mimicked his stoic pout.

He never could fathom how someone with such a boisterous presence managed to slink around so quietly. Even crossing the sopping ground she made no sound. Maybe it was true, that her kind adapted indefinitely.

"Are you ready?" he asked, ducking back inside his tent.

Natalia followed into the doorway and shrugged. "In the loosest sense of the word, yes."

James instinctively reached out for his father's sword with his right hand then paused. He grasped the hilt with his left. A bright flash of red exploded behind his eyes and a burning pulse raced through his arm, seizing his grip into a white-knuckle clamp. He lurched forward, catching himself on the edge of his cot, sucking in a tight breath in an effort to loosen his hold.

"James..." The concern in Natalia's voice pained him.

"I'm fine," he hissed, motioning for her to stay back. No more weakness. "Did you deal with Monroe?"

"He wanted to talk to you."

"I don't want to talk to him. That's why I sent you," James said, sweat beading on his brow. He wiped it away, ground his teeth, and picked up his sword. It felt heavy in his hands but he would manage. He would have to.

"Well, he refused to listen to me because he feels you owe him the decency of telling him what you want from him yourself. I don't understand all the intricacies of your manly ways, so I figured it was best left to the professionals."

James gave her a sour look but Natalia just shrugged. "Where is he?" he asked.

"Same as always. Centre of Shit Town."

James sheathed his sword and tugged on his overcoat. They wouldn't bring any furs with them, no customary clothes or items. Natalia had even been plucking the tangled braids out of her hair overnight. James was waiting until they got to the West before he cut his hair. Save himself the embarrassment.

"Go pack up the horses. I'll deal with Monroe." He gave Natalia a brisk pat on the shoulder as he passed by. She gave him a weary look but didn't say anything and he was already down the hill before he could think on it too much.

* * *

Jack Monroe was not James' favourite person, but they had managed to keep things cordial over the course of the past few months. It would simple to just use their childhood as an excuse, but James had always preferred the notion that Jack had been born an utter twat. Nevertheless, Jack had been helpful in rebuilding what little of Ninnevale was left and tending to the people. He had even positioned himself in the very middle of the ramshackle tent town. The people liked him, they trusted him, and like the charlatan he was, Jack had invited himself into their home for an indefinite stay.

James reached the bottom of the hill and held his head high as his muddy boots stained the wooden planks that crisscrossed between tightly packed tents. A few women and children with dirty faces and black eyes peeked out at him as he passed. The air was stale, holding the putrid boggy smell heavy over the valley.

The stink seemed only to increase when James caught sight of Jack, hidden away in the shadows, his hand up a woman's skirt. It would have made life so much easier for Natalia to just have dealt with this man. James' left arm rippled and his hand clenched, the fingers curling unnaturally. Tucking his arm behind his back, he approached Jack.

"A little early for such an arduous task, don't you think, Monroe?" James said, voice clipping unnecessarily loud.

The two broke away, the woman blushing red entirely. She gave James a half-hearted curtsey as she stumbled off down the walkway, her head lolling back and forth. It made James' skin crawl, what Jack could get away with, it always had. Growing up together, it had always stung that all the proper girls would steer towards him instead of James. They were so easily wooed. But now it wasn't chaste girls Jack courted, it was all the wrong people's wives.

Jack wiped his hand on his pant leg then set his in a wide, questioning shrug. "To what do I owe this pleasure, James?"

"It's Lord Barnes, Jack." James said cooly, fighting the urge to give a condescending sneer. "Is this why you were too busy to talk to Natalia."

"Not at all. I offered her my services. She declined."

"Hard to believe seeing as you still have both hands."

"Speaking of hands," Jack said, motioning to James' left arm. "Natalia told me about last night. Thought it would encourage me to listen. Couldn't be less bored actually. Ruthians were an interesting choice, though."

"If only I cared for your opinion, Jack." James sucked in a deep breath and rubbed his temple. "Unfortunately I don't. I do, however, have an important task for you."

"Is that so?" Jack circled around James in a predatory fashion that made James' blood curdle. It was always this way with Monroe, never still, ever moving and keeping just out of reach. Like a snake that knew the reach of its bite.

"You're a pain, Jack. Don't think that I come to you because I trust you or even like you--"

"Please, James. I can't stand much more flattery." Jack fanned himself and mocked a heavy swoon.

"Lord. Barnes." James stiffened and crack of lightning shock through his arm. His hand lurched out of its own accord and grabbed the front of Jack's shirt, ripping the seams as it dragged him forward. Only once Jack was inches from his face did James realize what had happened. He tempered his own confusion and frustration. Not being able to control his arm was nearly worse than having it dangle uselessly by his side.

"All right, I'm listening," Jack squeaked.

James released him and crossed his own arms, to keep them at bay. "As much as I hate to admit it, the people like you. They might even look up to you." James took a deep breath and looked Jack in the eye. "While I'm gone, I need a man in charge. Someone to look out for Ninnevale. What's left of it, at least."

"I'm honoured," Jack said, not missing a beat. James frowned, his lip curling into a pout.

"Understand that this isn't preferable, Jack. If there was anyone else--"

"But there isn't."

"Unfortunately." 

The two men stood awkwardly under the shade of a passing cloud, marsh water soaking through their boots. A feeling of dread settled in James' stomach. He truly had no other options. He couldn't stay in Ninnevale, not while the West celebrated the slaughter of his people, his father. They had to pay. And only he could collect that debt. If that meant leaving his home in Jack Monroe's hands, so be it. He couldn't afford to be picky.

James reached out his good hand and took Jack's. They shook solemnly, all pettiness and ill-will set aside for the time being.

"They're my people too, James. Sorry, _Lord Barnes_." Jack's tone was light, but sincere. "I'll take care of them. You have my word."

"I've heard the same promise before." James released Jack's hand and turned away. "Just keep them alive until I return."

He left before Jack could say another word. It was better that way.

* * *

At the edge of the tent settlement, where the ruins of Ninnevale were still visible, the road curved away into the mountains. And past the mountains lay miles of woodlands, and further still deserts and grasslands. Then, beyond the furtherest lands known by any man of the East, stood Caer Hall, Bastion of the West. James tried to picture it in his mind's eye. Sandstone and shimmering glass, sleek walls and blue banners. He'd see every last tower razed.

"Your steed, my lord."

James glanced over his shoulder at Natalia. She bowed lowly and then tossed him the reins. Their horses were work animals, draft horses that had yet to be slaughtered for their meat. It was going to be a long trip.

"How well did Monroe take do this new duties?" Natalia asked, pulling herself up onto the mammoth white mare. James followed suit, taking a moment to check his belongs. 

"Did you pack wine?"

"Don't avoid the question."

"Why do I have to carry it? It's your wine."

"James." Natalia leaned forward in her seat and raised both eyebrows.

He started his black mare into a walk and kept his eyes forward. Natalia was next to him in an instant, staring him down.

"I'd leave you behind if I could," he said after a while, when they had passed over the hill where a sentry tower had once stood. If he kept his gaze straight ahead, he wouldn't have to see the piles of rubble and ash. "I'd leave you here and you would be in charge. You would be a harsh, but just ruler. And if I died, you would take it in stride and continue to look after the people."

"You don't think I'd leave?" Natalia asked, incredulous. "Really?"

James risked a smile. "No. You don't just stick around for me."

"I do."

"Then you'd stay for my memory."

"James. Why Monroe?"

Their horses stopped abruptly, shaking their heads and letting out worried whinnies. James patted his mare on the neck and finally took in his surroundings.

"This is the edge. The end of Ninnevale. They don't want to leave their home."

Natalia rolled her eyes. "You cannot be serious."

"You used to push Jack Monroe and me over the invisible line all the time. It used to scare the shit out of us, being outside the so called domain of Ninnevale. Even if it was just by an inch." James reached back into his bag and retrieved one of the bottles of wine. "But we'd play that game all day."

"I did like shoving you."

James uncorked the bottle with his teeth and sat with it in his lap. "Jack was the only choice. I couldn't leave anyone else in charge. They're all so afraid, still. But Jack was never afraid. He'd stand outside the line and face the unknown. I don't think you ever really shoved him that hard."

"Are you going to be all right? Don't start crying on me," Natalia said.

James picked up the bottle of wine and tipped out a steady stream. It pooled on the ground around the horses hooves. Natalia made a disgruntled sound, but said nothing.

"To the ones we leave behind," James said quietly. He finished emptying the bottle and coaxed his horse forward, towards the unknown. She shied sideways, but continued onwards. 

If he looked straight ahead, he wouldn't see the last of his home. In his mind's eye, he could watch the fall of Caer Hall. James turned in his seat and watched as Ninnevale disappeared behind hills and trees. Until his home was gone again.

 


	3. The Lady of Caer Hall

It had always irked Lady Margaret that the view from the south side windows was ever the same, yet the ocean changed on a whim. That morning it had been a pale, crystal blue. A mirror of the sky, the colour of Sharon's eyes. It had been perfect and now, late in the afternoon, it was dark and clouded. Perhaps it was for the best, as it suited Lady Margaret's mood. 

She lay a hand on a smooth sandstone and leaned forward, her head poking out the other side of the window. Nothing below but a sheer drop and the constant, deafening crash of the ocean finding the land. Seabirds, small and large, circled overhead in a constant cacophony of squawks. The salt of the sea spray clung to her rosy cheeks and chestnut hair. It was, as it had always been, a part of her. Caer Hall was built from the sand of the beach and her people were of the sea.

Lady Margaret watched the churning waters, feeling small and young again. Once, she had been just the right size to clamber up onto these grand window ledges and dance to the music of the ocean. 

The hot, muggy air was cut by a breeze, carried in by the tide. It blew through the large oval windows and down the long covered corridor that traced along the back wall of Caer. It was lower than the other walls, mostly used for spotting distant ships. There wasn't much to fear from the ocean, nothing out there dared to face the might of Western people, born and breed on the salty shores.

Something caught Lady Margaret's attention. She saw a flash of red out of the corner of her eye. A lady-in-waiting with a bright smile and curled brown hair. It was hard for Lady Margaret to forget a face, but names didn't seem to match them so well these days.

"My lady," the girl said, bowing lowly. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

"It's quite all right." Margaret leaned back and smoothed down the front of her dress, a flowing piece made of royal white and blue.

"Spot any enemy vessels?"

Margaret's hands froze and she glanced up at the girl, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

"Oh. Oh, no. I apologize, my lady. I spoke out of turn." The lady-in-waiting shot her eyes downwards and bowed her head. "It was a poor attempt at a joke."

Margaret felt her tension ease and fingers uncurl. She hadn't even realized she'd made white-knuckled fists. It was near impossible to live like this, and if Howard Stark's constant and annoying taunting was correct, it would be the death of her. The Lady of Caer Hall took a deep breath and gave the girl before her a cold and steady look.

"What reason did you have for disturbing me? Aside from testing your lame jokes." Her tone was dismissive.

The girl flushed and stuttered. "I was told to fetch you, my lady. Captain Rogers has returned and is waiting for you in the great hall." 

A gust of ocean air chilled Margaret's sunburned, sweat-slicked skin, riddling her with gooseflesh. The past three months had dragged on like years and now that her waiting was at an end, it felt akin to facing the reaper. She pursed her lips and waved the girl away.

"I will meet with Captain Rogers. We are not to be disturbed," she said, picking up her skirt and brushing past the lady-in-waiting.

"My lady...it was Sir Stark that told me to inform you..." the maiden said.

Halted mid-stride, Margaret cursed under her breath. Stark had grown far too comfortable in Caer Hall as of late and become even more brazen. She hoped with all her being that Stev--Captain Rogers would be able to ameliorate the situation. Her heart fluttered at the unlikely prospect, but someone would have to put Stark in his place. 

"Do whatever you must to keep  _Sir_ Stark preoccupied." Margaret turned to the girl and was struck with how young the poor thing looked. Sending her to tend to Stark would undoubtably cost her any remaining virtue and innocence. Still, Margaret cleared her throat and reiterated, "Anything."

Dutifully, the girl nodded, jaw set. Margaret was sick to her stomach, sick of sending girls to Stark, sick of sending men to their deaths, sick of war and home. Even so, she returned the maiden's nod and hurried down the hall, her bare feet echoing cold slaps off the walls.

Caer Hall was not the largest of the Western houses, nor was it impenetrable or overly wealthy. It stood at the gateway to the West, hanging on the side of the Mallan Strait, where fresh water met with the churning salt of the sea and man took a knee so to pledge himself to civilization. There were no barbarians on the golden shores of the West, no cutthroats or sell-swords. Caer Hall was the promise of prosperity and peace, the holy house where men vowed to seek a higher purpose, a better life.

Sandstone and marble glistened in the courtyard, polished and swept free of leaves and petals. Lush gardens exploded colour around Margaret as she raced across the empty yard, weaving between planters and low hanging branches. The dappled sunlight reminded her of slow, quiet afternoons spent in the shade with Sharon. She had been so tiny once and so dear. Now Margaret's daughter hardly deigned to look at her, speak to her. This too could be amended by Steve--Captain Rogers' return. Of that fact Margaret was entirely sure.

The entirety of the house seemed to have been holding its breath in waiting for the Captain to return. Time slowed between each update from the Northern front and Margaret had played out all the ways she would berate the Captain's lack of correspondence upon his return. Now, however, her mind was blank and focused only on putting one foot ahead of her other, keeping her skirt bunched up in her fists as she ran. How could she hate him for finally coming home to her?

Margaret's heavy breathing carried down the length of the great hall. She whirled and closed the doors behind her then surveyed the dim room for any sign of life. There were always rats finding shelter from the sun in places they did not belong. 

But she was alone. Again. In the darkness of her home. Skin clammy and chest heaving, Margaret felt her way to her chair and took a seat at the top of the hall, end of the long table. From there she could see everything in the slight gleam of outside light. Ten chairs lined either side of the table, several of which were coated in a thin layer of dust.

"Where are you, Steve?" she murmured, tracing a star on the tabletop. The feel of his name on her tongue tickled her lips and sent a small tremor through her body. One could only imagine what seeing him--holding him--again would be like. It might very well destroy her.

At the far end of the room a door opened and someone slid inside. Margaret stood, her chair wobbling behind her and nearly toppling to the floor. It the darkness of the hall it could be anyone, Stark, Wilson, Dugan...that is, it could be anyone had the scent not given him away. He didn't smell of the sea or the sand, his scent carried deep, rich earth and pine trees through the air. It was crisp and snapped Margaret's senses awake. She placed a hand on the table to steady herself, her knees weak.

Steven Rogers, Captain of the Guard, was an exotic treasure. Golden haired and taller than any of his peers, he was like a precious gem standing out among the plain stones. Any man who knew him now, however, missed the gangly and dirty boy who had stumbled into Caer Hall years ago. The boy that the doctors had told Margaret and her parents, would not survive the night. He was proof that Caer Hall was home to hope and healing. A flaxen-haired paragon to stand guard at the entrance to the land of riches and golden sands.

"I didn't mean to keep you waiting, my lady. I had some business to attend to and you weren't here..." His voice was shy and commanding at the same time. Pausing in a stream of light, his eyebrows knit together and he ducked his head. "I'm sorry, I should have waited."

Margaret moved like lightning from the head of the table to inches from him. She reached out a hesitant hand to touch his chest and recoiled it with reluctance. Instead she gave him a weak smile and nearly gasped when he cupped a hand on her cheek. Margaret leaned into his touch and closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his callused and worked hands. It was a touch she'd dreamed about for months.

"I thought I'd missed you again," she said softly. Pulling back, she took his hand and kissed it. She was sure to gentle with him, lest she break the illusion and wake from this wonderful dream.

"I would never be so foolish as to leave your side when you needed me, my lady," Steve said. He ran his hand over her hair and drew Margaret into a warm embrace. Her pulse raced faster than it had during her dash to the great hall. Every one of her senses was buzzing, overwhelmed by his nearness.

When he moved to pull away, Margaret seized her chance. She sprung up on her tiptoes, curling her fingers through his hair, and kissed him. Every lonely night and long day spent worrying about the well-being of her home and loved ones was melted by the heat that flared between them. His taste was familiar and foreign, tugging at her nostalgia; their first kiss, their "last" kiss, and every single secret kiss since, every hidden touch, and lingering glance. 

His hands found her waist and lifted her with ease onto the table. Both of them refused to break apart, breathing heavily and grasping at each other as though they were holding onto life in the face of death. His breath stung her cool neck and she shuddered as he placed himself between her legs. Margaret wrapped herself around him as Steve's hands fumbled to lift her skirt. 

"Promise you won't leave me again," she pleaded, her words dripping with desperation.

"Yes, my lady," he panted.

Margaret chewed her lip as his fingers traced the insides of her thighs. Noble little soldiers in familiar terrain. "Say it again," she said, feeling confident.

Steve's eyes flicked up to meet hers, a cheeky grin crooked on his face. "Yes, my lady."

She tilted her head back and chuckled like she'd never have to worry about the world again, it would just be the two of them. Steve rubbed her back and pulled her into him slowly. Margaret let out a breath that she had been holding since Steve had left her, since Gabe had died. Steve kissed her neck and pressed himself inside her. Margaret took in a new breath, full of him and his smell, and melted into him. They moved in tandem, bumping against the smooth surface of the table in musical rhythm, and ended one after the other with the rush of relief from fears and pain that accompanies a gentle sigh.

Margaret nuzzled into Steve's shoulder and held him for several long minutes until he pulled out of her and brushed hair from her sweaty brow. They smiled at each other, candid and complete. Margaret giggled and smoothed her skirt down. His blue eyes on her always made her giddy like a silly girl.

She took him in: wearing his uniform of white and blue, adorned with a crimson star over his heart. His face was flecked with dirt that now ran with sweat and his blonde hair was disheveled, a single curl poking out over his forehead.

"It's been too long since we've had time for that," Steve said, his cheeks rosy. He tucked himself back into his pants and fumbled with the tie.

"Things will be different now that you're back," Margaret reasoned. She crossed her legs and leaned back on the table.

"Will they?" His tone caught her off-guard.

"You can't trust me on this?"

"Of course I trust you. That was never in question." Steve grasped the edge of the table on either side of Margaret and bent forward to kiss her on the nose. "What I worry about is our mutual  _friend_ overstaying his welcome."

Margaret's good humour faded. She glanced to the empty seat at the head of the table and then to the smaller chair on the right. Stark had occupied that spot for every meeting since he'd arrived. The pain of losing Gabe hadn't been enough for Margaret, no, she'd had to suffer through Stark's self-important arrival and self-appointment as her _political guardian._ He was to make all the decisions a woman could not.

"It's only gotten worse since you left."

"Define worse." Steve's brow creased into a frown.

"He sent men to Ninnevale. Outvoted me, convincing them all with that stupid moustache and ridiculous smarm." Margaret's nose wrinkled at the unpleasant memory.

"Smarm? Are you talking about Anthony? When did he get a chair?"

"After his father bought for him. His logic was that neither you nor Samuel would be using yours any time soon, so Anthony might as well fill the void. They have a guaranteed majority, I can't make a single move against them." 

Steve moved to the window and ran a hand through his hair. "Howard and Anthony..." He turned back to Margaret, "and they sent men to Ninnevale? We'd heard some things up North, but I didn't believe them. I didn't want to."

"Too much blood has been spilled to fund Howard Stark's pursuits," Margaret said softly, her gaze distant. She'd been so lost, drifting at sea, but now she'd found shore again and could feel strength returning to her legs. She stood, no longer shaky or unsure. Her Captain made her strong.

Already knowing the answer, Steve asked, "What are we going to do about him?"

Margaret passed a final, wanton glance at Steve then turned and led the way out of the great hall. "If Stark desires to trade in blood," she said, "then we shall make certain that is how he's paid." 


End file.
